


Luce Prima (Daybreak)

by StackerPentecost



Series: Solas (Light) [1]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Inappropriate Erections, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nudity, Post-Canon, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-15 10:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18497128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StackerPentecost/pseuds/StackerPentecost
Summary: They are all that's left. But are they really alone?-Post-canon. Brother Diarmuid isn't about to let his friend die on a beach far from their home.





	Luce Prima (Daybreak)

**Author's Note:**

> Jon Bernthal has one word in this whole movie and still manages to speak without saying a thing. Enough said.
> 
> All errors are mine. I know nothing about herbal medicine and have no idea what that would be like in Ireland during the Crusades. If there are any errors in facts about the period, they are also mine, I have literally no clue how things were in this time but I tried my best. Also, I doubt the Irish is correct because Google Translate is never really all that right, it's probably not even the right language so please excuse that too. What the words are meant to be in English are written after the Irish bits. No idea if the blessing is authentic or not either. I also bullshitted my way through the religious aspect because organized religion and I are not exactly on speaking terms and I will freely admit that.

As soon as his feet hit the sand, he took off. He passed more than one body but didn’t glance long enough to identify them. When he reached the Mute, the other man was face down in the sand and for a moment he was flashed back to the ambush in the woods. Only this time, when he shoved the Mute’s shoulder, the man let out an almighty groan and somehow shoved himself to his feet, despite the fact that he still had some sort of object protruding from his belly.

It was then that he realized it was the thing that had killed his brother at the camp in the woods. That awful weapon of Raymond’s.

That worried Diarmuid like nothing else, because after everything and how far they’d come, the Mute was all he had left.

The remaining soldiers faced his friend wearily but were soon dispatched with deadly force in spite of the Mute’s condition. But, as soon as they fell, he was brought to his knees, shoulders heaving as he dropped the sword to the sand. Diarmuid was by his side in an instant.

He knew some about taking care of injuries. Before he had been brought in the fold of the monastery, he had watched his mother use her talents to help and cure many things. It couldn’t all be devilish magic, could it?

Though, in that moment, Diarmuid wasn’t sure that he cared if it was. His faith had been shaken by what he’d seen. Man taking advantage of man, over and over, all in the name of war. How could such bloodshed be the will of God? Diarmuid didn’t understand and now there was no one left to ask, but he was sure of one thing. Throughout all of this, through every awful thing that had happened to them, it was the Mute who protected him, who saved his life at every turn. And yet, the Mute had no faith, did he? His brothers had debated that before deciding that the Mute’s silence was his way of atoning for his sins, so that must mean he had faith of some sort. Though now, Diarmuid wasn’t so sure. What was true faith anyway? Their doomed leader was convinced that the Mute’s killing and the coming war was all part of God’s plan. But Diarmuid had seen the anguish in those dark eyes. It was not something he enjoyed. It was a burden to him, almost as symbolic as the cross inked across his back. That made Diarmuid believe that maybe not everything was in God’s plan, but he allowed it to happen because there were no other choices.

As for the holy war, Diarmuid did not know how any truly righteous being could allow such slaughter in their name.

But there was no time to contemplate any of this. What Diarmuid knew was that the Mute needed his help and he needed it now, or else he was going to see his last and most cared companion die like all the rest.

Diarmuid wrap his arm around the Mute and placed the man’s arm around his shoulder and used all his strength to get him up and walking. It wasn’t easy and every step was difficult, especially with someone who outweighed him so much, but he had to do it, he had to try. He didn’t know where they were going or what they were going to do. He didn’t know the area or if there was anywhere close they could see shelter, didn’t know what waited for them beyond the beach but he knew staying out here in the sun would do nothing but kill them both. The sun had moved across the sky the time they found the old stone farmhouse. It looked old and abandoned, but it was they’re only choice. With every step, the Mute’s breath became more unsteady and erratic and he was stumbling more and more. He needed help soon or it would be too late.

Diarmuid shoved open the wooden door as best he could and helped the Mute inside. There was an old table and a bed, along with some shelves, a fireplace and some sort of chest. He helped the Mute to lay out on the old bed, the other man’s eyes closing as soon as he was still. Diarmuid quickly set about searching inside the hut. Nothing of merit was laying in the open, but the chest had not been checked. He knelt and threw open the lid, hoping against hope that there would be something to help his friend.

God hadn’t abandoned them yet after all.

Inside, he found some old blankets and some old bowls, as well as several other odds and ends. He could do this. All he would have to do is carefully remove the barb and hopefully, if he remembered the correct ingredients and could find them, he could make a paste his mother used for wounds like this. It needed to be ground and heated, both of which he seemed to be able to do with what he had. Now all he had to do was go and find what he needed in the woods nearby.

He stood, going back to Mute’s side. The bigger man was breathing shallowly and a sweat had broken out on his skin. Diarmuid needed to hurry. He quickly explained what was going on, though he wasn’t sure if the Mute knew what was happening enough to understand. Still, Diarmuid didn’t want him to find himself alone and be frightened.

Just as he was about to turn to leave, the Mute’s hand shot out and grabbed his, squeezing hard very briefly before letting go. Diarmuid hoped this meant that somehow, he understood what he’d been told. At the very least, it at least meant that he hadn’t lost all of his strength yet. Diarmuid turned and darted out the door.

He practically tripped over his own feet as he ran, trying to replay what exactly she had used from the few memories he still had left of that time in his life. Some sort of leaf, yes. And perhaps those red berries that birds seemed to favor? And a little sap of some sort. Yes, that was what she’d used.

It took longer than he would’ve liked, but maybe it didn’t and time simply felt as if it were hurtling forward at a sprint. Nonetheless, he believed he had found the correct items and enough to help the Mute. He dashed back to the hut, hoping he had not been gone too long. The very idea that he could come back to find that he was too late and he was now well and truly alone, scared him more than anything, maybe even the wrath of the Almighty.

And for a moment, after he stepped back into the hut, that’s exactly what he feared had happened. The Mute was still and Diarmuid felt something like tears burn at his eyes.

But then, the large man shifted slightly, more towards his friend, as if he was aware that he was back and trying to assure him that he was still among the living.

Letting out a sound of relief, Diarmuid surged forward, assuring his friend in a soothing tone that everything would be okay and that he wasn’t going to leave again. He immediately dig out one of the bowls from the chest and set about making the paste, mashing everything together like his mother had done. Starting a fire wasn’t easy, but he managed and placed the bowl over the heat to warm.

Now came the hard part. He had to remove the prong from the Mute if any of this was going to work and he had to do that without making things any worse and causing anymore harm.

Diarmuid had always been told to never speak ill of the dead ever, but in that moment he hoped Raymond was in the depths of hell where he belonged for all the pain he had wrought.

Diarmuid came to the Mute’s side, speaking to him calmly and clearly, as though they were back at the seaside collecting clams and none of this had ever happened. As always the Mute did not respond, his eyes still closed, but he was breathing and that was all that mattered to Diarmuid at the moment.

The first thing he did was get some of the blankets in order to press against the wound when it bled, so as to stem the flow. Then he assessed how deep the prong was. Deeper than he would’ve liked, it appeared, but it had not been turned or moved, so the damage could’ve been worse. Sighing, he apologized to his friend for what he was about to feel and promised he would try to cause as little hurt as possible and make it quick. He inhaled deeply, steeling himself against nervousness before gripping the prong’s shaft and giving a small tug to test how difficult this would be. It moved, but not much and the Mute groaned when it did.

Still, he had to do it. There was no other way.

So, despite his fear and making things immensely worse and perhaps even killing his friend instead of saving him, Diarmuid began to pull the object out, wincing at the loud sounds of pain that came from the Mute.

It was slow going and he had to repeatedly sop up the blood, but eventually, somehow, the prong was freed and the Mute quieted. Diarmuid quickly covered the wound and discarded the object, turning to retrieve the paste from the fire. It was hot, but not enough to liquify the sap, just enough that it would help stop the bleeding and close the wound. Carefully, he wiped away as much of the blood as he could and poured the mixture onto the Mute’s skin. His friend did not like the feeling clearly, but soon it cooled somewhat and didn’t hurt quite as badly. Diarmuid was relieved to see the concoction begin to set the way his mother had shown him. He pressed a hand to the Mute’s forehead, like his mother had also done. He didn’t think he developed any sort of infection despite being a little warm from the sun. So, doing the only thing he could do until his friend woke up, Diarmuid settled next to the bed and kept watch on the door while sending up prayers he wasn’t sure would be answered.

* * *

It was twilight when the Mute finally stirred. The sound he made startled Diarmuid and soon he was by his side, only to be shoved backward as the Mute pushed himself upright, eyes quickly taking in his surroundings as if preparing for another fight. Again, Diarmuid was reminded of the ambush in the woods, when the Mute had been so filled with rage that he’d nearly choked his friend to death before realizing who he truly was. But Diarmuid didn’t hold that against him, not when he himself did not know what the Mute had been thinking and when he clearly had not meant to hurt him for his eyes showed his regret. He did not get angry this time either, understanding that waking up here must’ve been disorienting and even a little scary. He quickly scrambled up, speaking calmly to his friend.

“We’re safe, it’s okay. I found this place and decided it was as good as any to stop. I took out the prong and patched you up as best I could. Are you okay? How do you feel?”

The Mute, naturally, did not respond, instead seeming to having only noticed his injury when Diarmuid mentioned it. He looked down and placed a hesitant hand over the patch on his wound, pressing cautiously. He winced, but no blood oozed out and Diarmuid felt relieved. He’d placed more of the mixture on while the Mute was unconscious, knowing it wouldn’t last forever. He was glad it was still holding and his friend didn’t seem to be in a great deal of pain. Carefully, he approached and the Mute watched him in that silent way of his as Diarmuid checked the patch for himself before feeling his forehead for any undo warmth.

“I don’t think you have an infection or else you’d be very warm, running a fever. That’s good, that would have been very bad.” He moved to the table, having found a pitcher in the old chest. He’d collected some water and offered some in a small wooden cup to the Mute. “I didn’t want to leave again and I know I said I wouldn’t,” He explained as the dark haired man drank, “but I thought you’d be very thirsty and there’s a creek nearby. I thought about catching fish but that would’ve taken longer than I liked so I picked some vegetables that I found and made them into a stew. It’s not very good, but it will do.” He poured out the food into one of the bowls he’d found and offered it. Dark eyes thanked him in a way he found familiar.

Sighing, Diarmuid settled next to the Mute on the bed. “They’re all gone…” He murmured softly. “All of our brothers. It’s just you and I now. I don’t know what to do, but I do know you should spend some time healing before we decide what to do, be it to attempt the trip back to the monastery or look for help elsewhere.”

The Mute offered his silent ascent, quietly munching on celery, potatoes and carrots. He ate about half before offering the rest to Diarmuid. The monk shook his head, indicating that he’d eaten already. The Mute quickly finished the rest, obviously hungry. Diarmuid made a mental note to collect more food when the sun came up in the morning.

As the light outside finally gave way to darkness, Diarmuid latched the wooden shutters over the one window in the hut and made sure the door was secure. He stoked the fire, adding enough wood to hopefully keep it alive through the night, as even during this time of year it would be rather cold. He then dug out some of the old blankets from the chest and offered them to the Mute, who took them before settling back on the bed. Diarmuid had decided long before the Mute woke up that he would sleep on the floor near the fire on an old reed mat he had found with one of the other blankets, a setup that wasn’t much different than his place at the monastery. They soon settled in and Diarmuid did his best to relax and get some sleep.

* * *

Despite his best efforts, sleep eluded the young monk. His mind wandered endlessly, replaying all the death he’d witnessed, all the while questioning his faith and his place in this world. His faith had been deeply shaken by what he’d seen and how people were so willing to kill over a simple rock, holy or not. He did not want to feel like this, he wanted to understand why God had allowed all this and if he could’ve done anything to change the things that had transpired. It didn’t help that the fire soon died down and the cold began to seep into the hut, making him shiver beneath the blanket.

He didn’t notice the Mute was awake until there was a tap on his shoulder. He started, rolling over to find the other man peering at him through the dim light, still spread out on the bed, though he had leaned over the edge to reach out to him. Diarmuid watched as he rolled so he was close to the wall before moving the blanket back.

Diarmuid felt his heart speed up without his permission and suddenly it was like there was no air left in the room and he wasn’t even sure why he felt that way.

But he was too cold right then to give it much more thought. He sat up and grabbed his blanket before climbing into the old bed beside the Mute. He shuffled himself under the blanket before adding his own on top.

He noticed immediately how warm it was and it seemed to be mostly thanks to the Mute. He hadn’t had a fever, but his body heat felt like being near his own fireplace that needed no maintenance and never would go out. It made him feel safer than he had in days.

The Mute also seemed more at ease, his eyes less guarded and almost warm when they looked at him.

“Thank you.” Diarmuid offered quietly. The Mute blinked a moment before moving closer, close enough to rest their heads together, like they had when they’d both feared for their lives in the ambush but somehow survived. Well, survived because of the Mute’s strength and skill with a sword.

Diarmuid didn’t need to ask what his friend was trying to say. It wasn’t just an acknowledgement, it was a thank you in itself. His quiet companion was thanking him for not leaving him and for saving his life. His hands, the same ones that had punched and choked and stabbed, touched his face with utter gentleness and Diarmuid did not fear him in the least, as he never had. In fact, he found his eyes closing, the gesture quieting the thoughts that had been swirling around in his head since he’d first laid down. He now felt like he might actually be able to rest.

The last thing Diarmuid recalled was the weight of the Mute’s arm curling protectively around him and how he was unable to keep himself from moving closer. Soon the only sound that he could hear was the steady beat of the other man’s heart. He swore he felt the brush of something soft against his forehead, but by that time sleep had already pulled him under.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, the sun had just began to creep over the horizon, filling the cabin with light through the cracks in the wood of the door and the shutters. This was typical, monks always rose with the dawn, so it felt like some semblance of normal for Diarmuid. In fact, for a moment, he thought he was waking from a dream back at the monastery. It took a moment for everything to come flooding back and for him to remember all that had transpired. It was then that he realized his face was pressed against the Mute’s chest, the warmth from his skin seeping into his cheek. The blanket over them made the whole thing feel like they were hiding from the world. Though, as comforting as that feeling was, Diarmuid couldn’t help the shame that soon crept into his senses. A good man, a holy man, did not do things like this, they did share a bed with another man, especially one that was significantly older and half naked no less. Immediately, this made him move away, even if he really didn’t want to.

_That’s because of sin, sins of the flesh._

His brothers had often spoke of such sins during his studying. Several memories came rushing back and Diarmuid quickly slipped out of bed, unable to look at the other man as he checked the fire. He heard the Mute stir behind him and his heart jumped in his chest spurring him to escape as fast as he could.

Diarmuid hoped the fresh air would help clear his head and rid of him of these odd feelings. All he wanted was for them to go away so he could attempt to start feeling like himself again. He picked up an old basket he’d found behind the hut and set about gathering more food and more ingredients to keep the Mute’s wound sealed and dressed.

Overhead, birds sang in the early light, calling to their brothers and sisters with their bright song. It helped to calm his nerves as much as the stillness in the trees and the grass beneath his feet. He collected more celery and a few carrots, along with some mushrooms and more berries. He made a brief trek back to stoke the fire and start something for breakfast before heading back to the creek for more water and to wash away some of the dirt and grime on his body. All the while, he silently asked his Lord for forgiveness again and again, asking for guidance and for his sins to be swept away and for his heart to made clean again.

When he returned to the hut for the second time, he felt much better.

The Mute was awake when he arrived, sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers touched the patch on his stomach and Diarmuid approached, taking a look for himself.

“Here,” He murmured, gathering up some of the mush from the warm pot and giving it to his friend, “eat. I’ll work on fixing your patch.”

The Mute watched him briefly before doing just that, clearly hungry once again. With his size, it wasn’t surprising.

It didn’t take long for Diarmuid to mix up the healing concoction again, to the point the steps almost felt familiar. He applied it while the Mute ate. The other man held as still as he could, more interested in his meal than impeding Diarmuid’s work. Soon, the wound was covered with another layer and there was again no blood or pus, as well as a normal temperature from the Mute, so he was confident he’d done all he could and that the healing was going as well as it could under the circumstances.

“Once this dries, you should come with me to the creek and wash up. I already did and I’m sure you would feel better. It will also give me a chance to wash your clothes. They have a lot of blood on them.” Diarmuid sighed. “You also smell, a little.” The corner of his mouth creeped up. The Mute paused mid chew and glanced down at the other man. He seemed to let these words sink in, before he made the softest sound that Diarmuid took to be some sort of laugh. He’d never heard the Mute laugh before. Up until their clashes with the warriors in the woods, he had barely heard the Mute do more than grunt with the effort of lifting a heavy object or exhale a bit louder than normal, so this was a surprise. But Diarmuid liked this surprise, enough that he couldn’t fight the smile that came to his lips. “Come on and finish, the brothers would have our hides if they found us lounging around when there is work to be done.”

The Mute finished his food and stood up, testing his weight as he hadn’t been upright for quite some time. He wobbled a tad at first before his balance returned and he was steady.

“Try not to move so the patch will come apart, okay? It’ll stay for most things but I don’t suggest testing it too much.” Diarmuid warned as they headed out. The Mute said nothing but the monk knew he’d been understood all the same.

The creek was peaceful and Diarmuid quite liked it, liked the sound and the smell and feeling of the cool water on his skin. Diarmuid had grabbed the Mute’s discarded shirt before they’d trekked away from the beach, discarding it in the hut. He had grabbed it as they left so he could wash it. It was only when the Mute began to wade into the water that he realized that he was about to see this man even more naked than he already was.

So much for banishing his sin.

The Mute though, seemed to care little for modesty, at least in the presence of his young companion, as he began to strip off his breeches without hesitation, despite Diarmuid’s close proximity. The monk quickly spun himself around and waited as he listened to the sound of fabric coming off and water splashing as the other man moved. He jumped when the pants landed next to him in a heap.

Diarmuid exhaled shakily. Thank the Lord Almighty for small favors. He snatched up the dirty garment and quickly made himself scarce, heading to a different part of the creek where he could not see his friend as he cleaned off.

He spent a good few minutes stooped at the creek’s edge, scrubbing the clothes. The water turned murky as he did, from both dirt and the rusty color of dried blood. When he deemed that the clothes were as clean as he was going to get them, he set them out to dry in the sun on a nearby rock.

He should’ve stayed put and he knew it. But something drove him to head back the way he came, be it his own sin or something else altogether that he couldn’t name.

Nonetheless, he soon found himself back in the clearing where the Mute was. The other man’s back was turned to him, the sun shining on the black ink of the crucifix across his back, the raised scars surrounding it almost white in contrast. He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat as his eyes traveled lower and watched as his friend knelt to wash off more of the filth from his body.

Diarmuid knew what he was doing was wrong, that he should not be looking at anyone else, especially another man, in a state of immodesty. But he couldn’t make himself move, no, he was rooted to the spot. He could only watch as the Mute moved slowly, the muscles in his back shifting as he did, as the monk saw things he had only seen on his own body.

His own body. It reacted in ways he wasn’t sure he understood or had ever felt before. He suddenly felt as if he had been baking in the sun, like he’d been warmed down to his very bones, that his blood itself had begun to boil. His lungs suddenly ached like he couldn’t get enough air in them fast enough. And that wasn’t the only things that had begun to ache.

This had happened before, this stiffening of flesh. He’d had dreams where it happened, where he had no control over what he saw and had woken to find what he’d done while he slept. He’d felt as if his mind had been poisoned and for days he prayed for help, for forgiveness, anything to make it stop. And eventually, his prayers were answered and the nighttime disturbances ceased.

This though, despite being the same reaction, was different. He was awake, he was in control, was he not? Dreams were out of one’s hands but he was not dreaming now. He had no excuse of that sort. And this ache, it was not only in that hard area where he dare not touch, but it was an ache deep inside him too, deep in what felt like his soul itself. He wanted, Merciful Lord, oh how he wanted. But what exactly he wanted, he wasn’t so sure. But this hunger, this want, this ache, it felt as though it grew more and more by the second and would soon swallow him whole.

_I will surely be damned for this._

He was brought back to the present when he heard the water splash, saw the Mute begin to rise and turn toward him. Diarmuid, though he felt like a coward, and a shameful, unholy one at that, quickly hid his presence behind a tree, doing everything he could to take deep, slow breaths and calm the erratic pounding of his heart.

He should’ve known he’d never been able to sneak up on the Mute. The man never spoke a single syllable in all the time he’d been with the monks, but Diarmuid knew his mind was sharp, as he had told his brothers many times. His hearing too, was just as good.

Diarmuid nearly fell over when the Mute appeared next to him, still as naked as the day he was brought onto this earth. His expression was utterly unreadable, even for someone who had learned the silent ways he spoke long ago. For a long moment, they simply regarded each other, Diarmuid panting as if he’d been running for hours. He did everything he could to keep his eyes up, to focus on the Mute’s face, but he was sinful and he was weak and he failed.

He wasn’t sure what to do with the image he was granted, had never studied such a body part, even the one he possessed, but it made the heat in his body feel like it had reached a fever pitch. He felt his cheeks grow uncomfortably hot when he realized that the Mute could probably very well see the evidence of his sin for himself through the fabric of his robe. That’s when Diarmuid could suffer this no more and he quickly dashed away, unable to handle those deep, dark eyes on him for a moment longer. The Mute did not follow.

When Diarmuid deemed himself at enough of a distance, he collapsed to his knees in the dirt, his lungs aching as though he wished to utter a great noise, something painful and wretched, and a sob he did make, one that even to his ears sounded strange and wounded.

Why had this happened to him? Why had any of this happened? He had tried so hard to be a good man, a holy man, one of purity and faith, like his brothers had shown him. He had studied as he was asked and tried to understand everything put before him so he could be the best person he could be, so that the Lord would look on him with favor and see that his pagan upbringing had been left behind and that he was truly a man of strong faith, a man of God.

But this, all of this, it seemed to go against everything he thought to be true. Not just the fighting and the bloodshed and the death. That he could almost wrap his head around and accept it as God’s will. The Father worked as only He pleased and Diarmuid had always tried not to question the will of the Almighty.

But this, this affliction, this sin, whatever it may be, it had gripped him like a vice and refused to let go, even when he begged for forgiveness and made sure to repent for his wrongdoing. And yet, it did not abate, it only grew worse, morphing into something he didn’t truly understand. Was he being punished? Was that it? Had he wronged his Savior so much that he had incurred his Wrath?

That’s not what this felt like though. This odd, gnawing, all consuming ache deep in his very spirit itself, it did not seem like punishment. Instead, it almost felt as if it were there to point him in the correct direction, like the stone had on their journey here. And that ache just so happened to keep pointing him back toward what he already knew.

The Mute.

Just the thought of the man made Diarmuid’s heart pound faster and the ache inside him worsen. He wanted it gone, needed it to stop, but yet, at the same time, he did not. It felt like heaven tinged with hellfire.

But was that not the very experience of being on this earth? Did the Lord not teach His children to be grateful and cherish his bounty here on earth, despite the awful things that lurked on it? Was one not supposed to love his fellow man while also reckoning with the evil that plagued them all?

Love.

That word felt right in ways he could not fully explain. But when he thought of the Mute, of his silent companion, who never once intended to hurt him, who was willing to do anything, even sacrifice his own life for the sake of his friend and others as well, who willingly shielded Diarmuid with his own body, who was willing to stand between him and whatever they faced, that word...it seemed to make sense in a way he was only just beginning to realize and fully grasp.

Love. Was that not what they showed each other, in their own way of speaking? Even if it had not been said aloud, did that mean it was not shown in other ways? In looks of concern and small moments of joy that only they shared. In shared meals and chores, and now a shared bed and blankets too.

When he thought about it like that, all of this didn’t seem so wrong. It seemed quite the opposite in fact.

They didn’t have to go back. They could stay, couldn’t they? They could stay, they could just stay. No one would ever know what happened. All of the others had journeyed to their ends and it was just them now. They didn’t have to go back if they didn’t want to.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Maybe this was what God’s will had been all along. It didn’t have to be the two of them in the end, but it was. Was that not a sign from heaven in itself? Had the Lord not brought them here by way of His Mercy? Spared their lives so that they might find some semblance of peace together?

He wanted that. The Mute deserved that. If he tried hard enough, perhaps they could grasp that peace together. They had already been through utter chaos and undo atrocity. They had been tested and they had lived through it.

This, Diarmuid had to believe, this place, this chance, this was how it had always been meant to be. This was where they belonged.

No longer filled with shame or dread, Diarmuid felt a sense of hope welling up in him and his faith, though not rock solid, was on better footing. He gave his thanks to the Lord and stood up.

This time the Mute did not scare him.

He had apparently found his drying clothes and put them back on, as he was no longer nude. He looked worried, watching the young monk with unease in his eyes, his brows drawn together. Diarmuid did not run from him this time, instead coming to mirror the pose they had found themselves in on the forest trail and the night before in the hut. His fingers pushed back dark, damp curls before curling around the back of the other man’s neck. The Mute still looked unsure, but he did not pull away, instead settling his hands at Diarmuid’s sides and drawing him closer. He exhaled heavily, like the touch in itself was a relief.

Diarmuid spoke to him then, letting an abundance of affection seep into his tone. “May our mornings bring joy and our evenings bring peace. May our troubles grow few as our blessings increase. May the saddest day of our future be no worse than the happiest day of our past. May our hands be forever clasped in friendship and our hearts joined forever in love. Our lives are very special, God has touched us in many ways. May his blessings rest upon us and fill all our coming days.”

The Mute listened to every word, his eyes growing wider, filling with much the same emotion Diarmuid knew could be seen in his own expression.

The man may have not been a monk but he knew what the blessing was for. It was meant for a new couple, one that had just been married. It was said at weddings in the hope that God would bless the newlyweds in whatever way he saw fit. To Diarmuid, it made sense because the Lord had done just that. He knew this technically broke his vows as a monk, but he was not one about to deny the will of his Lord.

When the Mute pulled him close, holding onto him as though he were his last lifeline on a turbulent sea, Diarmuid made no move to stop him. The other man’s heart beat wildly against his cheek, revealing his feelings without a single word. He felt the brush of a nose against his forehead as the Mute nuzzled against him, gulping down air in an attempt to regain his composure.

A hand moved from his waist to stroke through his hair before tipping his chin up. Every touch felt like he’d been blessed by God’s own hand.

And when this man, whose company and affection he had been gifted, kissed him as though there was nobody else left in the world but them, Diarmuid knew his feelings had been correct.

This. This was love and this was peace and as long as he took breath, he would thank his God for this blessing and never let it go.

Diarmuid felt so warm, so happy, that he almost missed what happened next, until it was whispered right in his ear.

The voice was deep, rough and a little sharp from disuse, but exactly what he had imagined it would sound like. And it said one thing and one thing only, _“Ar deireadh.” Finally._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm frankcastlesmuscles on Tumblr if you wanna say hey.


End file.
